The Weight
by ShirleyAnn66
Summary: He thought that once it was over he'd feel…something. Vindicated. Satisfied. Triumphant. Peaceful. Instead, the only thing he still feels is the weight of her, hanging, dripping in his arms. That beautiful, laughing child reduced to something tossed into a river.


**Word count: ** 784

**Warnings:** Spoilers for season 1 and 2. Angst.

**Disclaimers: **In case you're wondering: I don't own Broadchurch, although I'm rather desperately jonesing for an Alec Hardy of my very own (grumpy bastard that he is). The show belongs to ITV and Alec Hardy belongs to David Tennant, although I'm willing to work out a timeshare arrangement.

**A/N:** I wanted to get this posted before Series 2, ep 5 airs and completely rips my heart out again.

Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

* * *

He's not sure what he'd expected, but this isn't it. He's managed to gather the evidence, to prove the case. The killers were taken into custody today and won't walk free again any time soon.

He thought that once it was over he'd feel…something. Vindicated. Satisfied. Triumphant. Peaceful. Instead, the only thing he still feels is the weight of her, hanging, dripping in his arms. That beautiful, laughing child reduced to something tossed into a river.

The journey's over, the battle won, but still her memory lingers, the struggle with the river, that horrendous, never-ending trek to the river bank. He's…bewildered. Uncertain. He's been Captain Ahab, only he's finally caught his whale. Who is Alec Hardy without Sandbrook?

He's startled by a knock on his glass door. He struggles to his feet, and isn't surprised to see Miller standing outside, looking at him with that too-familiar warily concerned look she always gives him.

"What are you doing here?" he asks tiredly.

He doesn't mean to be harsh, or cold, but he assumed she'd be only too happy to be shot of him. No need to see him again until it's time to appear in court again, just like with Joe. His words have the desired effect of wiping away her concerned look, and he's pleased with that, even as he's a little saddened by it, too.

"Just thought I'd check on you," she snapped. "See if you wanted some company, now that everything's over."

He stares, exhausted, feeling ready to drop, and he opens his mouth to tell her no, it's time for her to forget about him, time for her to take care of herself and her children.

To his own surprise, he says, "Do you want to go to Sandbrook tomorrow?"

* * *

The day is warm, the sun bright, and Hardy's a bit conflicted about that. On the one hand, he's glad, because there's been enough cold and darkness, but on the other hand, he found her in the rain, in the water, and it feels like that's the only way it should ever be when he's near her.

He easily leads Ellie to the pitifully small grave, even though he hasn't been there since they buried her. He carries brilliantly yellow flowers, wrapped in cellophane. They're a bright, warm contrast against the cold gray of the stone tablet when he lays them down.

He stands, and feels blank, except for the ache in his arms from the weight of her, that poor dead child she had become, that ugly thing someone had made her.

He doesn't know what he expects from this pilgrimage. He bows his head, eyes fixed on her name, and all he feels is her, heavy in his arms, and the water, heavy against him as it closed over his head and filled his lungs.

His vision blurs, and he says the only thing he can think of:

"I'm sorry."

His voice is hoarse, and cracked, and he closes his eyes, tears leaking from beneath his lashes.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner. I'm sorry it took so long to get you the justice you deserve."

He stands and bows his head, and wishes he had faith. He wishes he had something - someone - he could pray to, but there's nothing, there's nobody. There's only the sun and the sky, Miller hovering behind him, and the cold gray tombstone obscured by the incongruously cheerful flowers.

He wants to lay her down. He _needs_ to lay her down. His work is done, her killers brought to justice, and he needs to let her rest in peace. She deserves that much, at least.

He opens his hands and lets them fall, limp, to his sides, and stands, silently begging forgiveness from a God he doesn't believe in, from a child long dead, and dead long before he found her.

He senses Miller walk up beside him. He flinches at the touch of her hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't move away.

She says, softly, "You did a good job on this, Hardy. Well done."

That makes him look at her, broken and bereft and unable to let go.

With a soft, soothing noise, she puts her arms around him and pulls him into a hug.

He freezes and then he doesn't so much hug her as wraps around her, crushing her tight against him, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Miller's weight against him somehow makes Pippa's weight easier to bear, at least in this moment, in the sun and beneath the sky, with the yellow petals fluttering in the breeze that brushes past them like a child's laughter.


End file.
